


only in the movies

by brandyalexanders2 (brandyalexanders)



Series: easy tiger [2]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27521317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandyalexanders/pseuds/brandyalexanders2
Summary: o grace,you raised him in rose-cupsaround the temple of aphrodite;i must speak of his fragrantgarland, from how many thingsin flattery she anointed the boy;goddesses endowed him with tender beauty(ibycus fragment 282c)
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Series: easy tiger [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011501
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	only in the movies

**Author's Note:**

> ahem. are you familiar with the concept of mistresses wearing the same perfume as wives so their husbands don’t get caught

Civil dusk is quiet and coy outside of the city. Greg is used to slowing to a stroll once the sky shades everything cimmerian red, spending his nights in rural darkness, once-removed from the rest of the world. It’s not unlike him to stay up far past his bedtime, but typically he’s just left to his own devices until he manages to sleep. Now he’s got company all night long, boisterous screaming in the streets, his phone chattering with crossed boundaries from work and/or family. 

More often than not it’s just Tom trying to lure him out. He’s got boundless energy to spend, and even if Greg feels basically dead if he’s forced to interact with other people past ten, Tom usually shows him a good time. 

“Come over,” Tom says on the phone, just as Greg is about to undress to lounge around. It’s already eight, and he’d been planning on settling in to scrape resin off his bowl, but an evening at Tom’s townhouse sounds alright. “I’m sending a car.” 

It’s one of the dozens of times a week where he calls Greg to relay very text-able information. Tom hangs up before he can reply. Even so, he shrugs on a presentable jacket and goes to stand on the sidewalk so he can meet the driver outside of the building. 

After he steps out of the SUV and buzzes the intercom, he’s let in by Tom himself. He pats Greg on the back and tugs him over the threshold. The house is impeccably decorated as always; there’s an unpainted porcelain bowl brimming with bright red cherries on the tidy counter, and their big fluffy dog is happily curled up on a mattress that looks more decadent than entire apartments Greg has stayed in. The lamps are all dimmed low. 

“I got you a present,” Tom says, skipping past small talk and directing Greg to sit on the couch. It’s a sophisticated, sterile shade of beige.

“Oh, thanks, Tom, that’s nice of you,” Greg hums absently. Gifts from Tom are nothing new. They’re another loud background noise in his life, albeit a pleasant one. 

Tom passes him a slick white box with black letters inlaid, minimalist stamping which reads _Casablanca Lily_ and _extrait de parfum_. It’s silky in his hands. 

“Go ahead,” Tom encourages. He sits at his side, looking expectant. Greg indulges him and slips the middle of the box through the hollow packaging. He finds a rosy glass perfume bottle that he would generously describe as diminutive. Before he can say anything about it, Tom picks it up with delicate fingers and uncaps it. “Here, Greg, hold out your wrists.” 

Greg rolls up the thin sleeves of his sweater to lay his wrists in Tom’s outstretched palm. The amber perfume diffuses over them like a mist, robust and balanced. It reminds him of tea, the botanical type his grandfather offers him without any sugar. 

“Rub them against your neck,” Tom instructs, replacing the cap and the bottle and setting the package aside. Greg does as he’s told and then drops his arms to his sides. “So? I know it’s not One or Le Male or whatever it is they sidle you with at Macy’s, but not too shabby, I hope.” 

Greg feels beyond outclassed, considering he’s never even heard of the peasant fragrances he assumes Tom is mocking. He tries to form an opinion that won’t sound too underbred. “It’s nice,” he submits. “Um, it’s strong, but not overwhelming? Like, aromatic. And flowery, but not too sweet. It’ll be good for- mingling, I think.” 

“All perfume is aromatic, Greg,” Tom teases, but there’s no real bite to it. Greg still doesn’t get why Tom seems so thrilled when he accepts his presents. He thinks it might be the power play, the lordship he holds over Greg by tailoring him into something that suits his own interests better. “I thought you’d like it.” Greg refuses to get his hopes up, wills his heart to settle so his pulse won’t throw the fragrance from his flesh. 

Tom gives up the pretension of friendliness. His hand is on Greg’s thigh, impossible to ignore, and he leans in just near enough for a kiss that’s chaste and chivalrous. Greg feels downright jubilant.

“Thank you. It’s really nice,” he repeats, and before he can feel badly about it he kisses Tom, pulls him close so there aren’t any gaps between their bodies. They set a pace like evening in the countryside, meandering, mellow. It’s nearly enough to make Greg forget that he’s out of place. That he’s taking gifts he shouldn’t accept from a man who doesn’t quite belong to him. Moralizing doesn’t suit the situation, though. 

Tom is always petting his hair when he gets the chance. He starts at the long strands that’ve grown just past Greg’s collar and ravels himself through them, leading Greg with him when he flops onto his back along the length of the couch. Greg climbs over his limbs carefully and settles on top of him. Their mouths hardly miss a beat. They only pause when Tom places his hands on Greg’s cheeks, holds him at a distance, just gazing. His thumbs are gentle against Greg’s zygomatic arch. 

Sometimes when he looks at Greg his eyes shine with put-on voracity- gleaming, indifferent gray like a predator’s. Something that seeks survival through violence. With the low lighting of the room, he looks like a softhearted lover straight out of a classic. 

He tugs Greg in for another kiss, and if Greg didn’t know any better, he might think this could pass for true romance. 

When they kiss it’s shy until it isn’t anymore, until Tom coaxes his tongue between Greg’s lips and drinks him down like blush wine at dinner. Greg notices that he smells like clean sweat, like raucous toasting and atmosphere, conspicuous consumption. It’s flashy and fruity and it carries hints of the scent that’s masking Greg’s natural musk (loitering smoke, and whatever soap he can pick up on sale). The idea that he’s left a mark on Tom, something lingering and personal, is ridiculously gratifying. He catches Tom’s lower lip between his teeth and bites. 

Their hips don’t meet up laying like this, so Greg has ended up with Tom’s thigh between his legs. Tom presses up subtly. It’s getting too warm to stay in two layers of clothing, and he kind of wants Tom inside of him or around him, however they can fit themselves together well past the point of professional. 

Greg tenses when Tom directs his kisses lower, arches his neck so he might repeat the gesture there. He nearly hides his sigh of approval before he remembers they’re alone and tucked away. There’s no peace to disturb besides a sleeping dog, no transient roommates that could come through the door at any time. 

Well. There _is_ one, but Greg’s doing his best to not think about what might happen if Shiv Roy finds him heavy petting with her husband-to-be. 

Tom’s mouth is strident against his carotid, then his collarbone, seeking out all the places he wants to be touched most desperately. It’s nearly enough to sate the part of himself that whispers for this all the time. He wants fewer hush sounds, wishes Tom could leave shouting bruises on his neck, even in the places other people would see. 

What a mess. 

Tom brushes the ball of his foot along Greg’s ankle. “Gregory,” he says, lowing and far too friendly. He drags Greg’s curled fingers to his lips. “Ahh. Come to bed. Will you? I want you to come to bed with me.” 

Greg does his best not to seem too eager. He heaves himself up and sits back on his heels, and Tom follows, chasing whatever it is he always seems to want from Greg. 

“Your bed?” He peels off his top layer as he says it, which might be a bit counterintuitive. It’s a forgone conclusion, anyway. 

Tom wastes no time with Greg’s undershirt, helping him pull it over his head with a sense of shining urgency. “My bed.” 

“Yours. Yeah, let’s- why don’t you lead the way, Tom.” 

His bed- Greg thinks the term insistently- is so big that someone smaller might get lost in it. The sheets are so virtuously white that Greg worries he’ll leave scarlet handprints all over the hospital corners. Tom’s clever fingers undoing the rest of his clothes make him complicit, and Greg has to return the favor, or at least set them equal. 

He unbuttons Tom’s shirt with measured consideration. Once it’s off, he makes a split decision to fold it loosely and lay it on the nightstand in arm’s reach. Tom laughs at him, sparkling and smooth. 

“You’re a real gentleman, Greg. Just a stand-up guy.” 

Greg offers a smile. He ignores the guilt and lets Tom guide him until he’s climbing up past the edge of the bed. He isn’t particularly sappy, but the perfume’s still clinging to him, setting the mood. When Tom lays against him it’s like they’re in a lush garden, somewhere wild and overgrown. They’re laced together like climbing ivy. He feels Tom’s midriff with curious hands and kisses him in a ramble, one he starts effortlessly but just can’t seem to stop. 

Tom is unselfish and patient, the way he peppers Greg’s chest and hips with kisses while he wriggles down the bed. He braces his hand under Greg’s thigh and traces the seam between his hip and leg with his soft lips, meeting Greg’s eyes the whole time. It’s simple but it makes him twist his fingers in the blanket, and he’s glad he’s got an anchor to the world when Tom eases inside of him with two lube-slicked fingers. 

Tom rubs slowly in lazy strides, his fingers slightly curled to stroke at Greg intently. Greg cries out, counts stars against his vision as the feeling of being jerked off from the core of his being spreads upwards through his spine. It puts a halt to his galloping thoughts and he bears down to meet the sensation where it starts. 

“You can use more? Only if you want to.” Tom edges his fingers out and complies, woefully interested in his reactions. Greg rubs his face into his palm to cover up his whimper. Every lamb’s-ear pet sends him spiraling.

“If I _want_ to.” Tom’s smirk _isn’t_ fond, and Greg won’t interpret it that way. He worries his eyebrows together and his teeth find his knuckle, because god, Tom apparently wants him to come ages before he ever gets his cock inside him. “I just wanna fill you up with whatever I can find until it’s all you can think about, Greg,” he opines. It’s so matter-of-fact and transparent and stupid, it shouldn’t turn him on, but he’s never been able to ignore his name in Tom’s voice. He lilts through the one distinct syllable like a looping record, scratches and all. It’s a beautiful and alluring thing when Tom says it. “Would you like that? I bet you would. Bet you get up to all kinds of weird shit in that youth hostel.” 

Greg can barely think. “No, um, no, nothing- nothing interesting to report on that front. You- you already know,” he babbles. Tom pulls his fingers out and greets him at the head of the bed with a kiss.

“Yeah, fuck, I know.” He’s between Greg’s legs. They aren’t even talking anymore but he says, “now hush,” leaves a warm kiss above his eyelid. 

He dries his hand off on something Greg hopes is easily cleaned, then his thumb is holding Greg open and the tip of his cock is slick against his rim, and there’s Tom inside of him, raking the coals in his stomach with his thoughtful, insistent push. 

“Greg,” he breathes, humid against the skin of Greg’s neck. Greg collects his wits enough to grasp for Tom and ends up with his palms against his flexed shoulders. “That’s my boy,” he goads, “touch me, come on, hands all over.” 

Greg gasps out his name a bit belatedly, after he’s already started to move. It’s not quite _good_ yet- the friction is still building- but being with Tom is overcompensation on its own. His cock is swelling against his stomach, and he feels insane, maybe the same way Tom is, sometimes. Like he’s stuck in a loop of perpetual rising action. 

He shifts his hips experimentally, squeezes, and _there’s_ something. Tom sounds like he hasn’t done this in ages when he keens in Greg’s ear. His hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat and he’s sure he’s blotched and rosy, but Tom’s still looking down at him like he’s something blossoming and lovely, the same elation he gets when he’s gleefully fucking Greg over. It’s the happiest Greg can remember being since he touched down in New York. 

Maybe he talks, says silly, incriminating things right into Tom’s ear. Maybe Tom says them right back. 

When Tom comes inside him he thinks of cross-pollination and morning glories, slow and sudden blooms. Tom pulls out and does his best to sweep Greg up in his arms. He brushes his palm against Greg’s cock, envelops him in petal-light touch. It’s so benevolent it’s nearly unbearable. Greg comes all over his fingers, dewdrops of it pooling on his abdomen. 

“Come back,” Tom says eventually, so he guesses it’s been awhile since his mind drifted. He’s smoothing his palm over Greg’s hair. Up and out of his face. He smiles, hoping it isn’t too obvious that every part of him is gleaming. 

“I’m just here,” he says, still a bit breathless. He’s sticky and glossy and thoroughly debauched. “Don’t worry.” 

Tom is warm and his hands are grounding, so Greg stays nestled against his sternum for a bit longer, his legs drawn up to his chest. When he feels like he’s dozing Tom shakes his shoulder gently and clicks his tongue. 

“You’re a mess, Greg. You’re not falling asleep next to me without some kind of shower. There’s an extra towel in the en suite.” 

Greg takes the hint and untangles himself from Tom’s hold, leaving a kiss and a _be right back, then_ against his cheek. The attached bathroom is pretty and modern and the shower’s consistent water pressure soaks him in satisfaction. There are soaps and shampoos with branding he can’t work out how to pronounce, and he washes his hair with something that isn’t two-in-one, which feels like an exciting development. When he scrubs his hands over his body he can feel all the places Tom has been; he recalls warm pressure on his hips, lips on his neck. 

He steps over the shallow tub and into the steamy bathroom reluctantly, dries off his hair with a towel that looks long enough to actually cover his whole body. It’s in that lull of action that he takes stock of the gray stone countertop and his-and-hers sinks. There’s not much clutter, just neatly arranged colognes and hair gels and what might be moisturizer, and on the other side, a half-full bottle of tawny perfume. 

And, oh. That’s a brand Greg recognizes.

There’s nowhere to be that isn’t full of reminders of what this really is, so he slinks back to Tom in bed like a kicked puppy. No way out but through. “Much better,” Tom tells him, pressing his nose to Greg’s damp hair and kissing his scalp. He’s the only clean thing in the room. The scent of sex and cloying perfume has bonded to the sheets. It’s just as strong as before, a little overwhelming. Maybe it was there to begin with, dormant in the linen before he ever had a chance to leave a trace. Greg is too stuck to Tom to try to leave. 

“You don’t mind, right? My staying over, I mean.” He’s laying in the crook of Tom’s shoulder and their ankles are hooked together under the blankets. “I don’t want to intrude, or cause any trouble, or,” his voice drops off, though there wasn’t much strength in it to begin with. 

Tom snorts out a laugh. “Greg. I already told you we’d have a sleepover once you were presentable. Don’t fuss,” he murmurs. Greg feels anxious, trying to process the care in his voice. He wishes he was someone who didn’t want this, but here he is, accepting little scraps of an emotion that’s too visceral to call by name. 

He stays the night, sleeps curled up in Shiv’s scent and shadow. In the morning he brews Tom a cup of coffee in a tastefully tan mug while Tom starts a load of laundry. It’d be pretty goddamn domestic if it wasn’t so miserable. 

“I think your true calling might be making the perfect cup of coffee. You‘d be the prettiest barista at the yuppie coffee shop,” Tom says, and grins. His mouth tastes like fresh grounds. It’s better than flowers, nearly enough consolation. Greg kisses back with all the conviction he can muster, like one gesture might ever be enough to make Tom give it all up. 

“I think I’ll just stick with making yours.”

Tom’s still smiling. He murmurs something about being open to the idea, and Greg feels tethered despite himself. He watches Tom sip his coffee.

Later, Greg leaves draped in one of Tom’s big wooly scarves, his fragile gift tucked into his coat pocket. And even though he’s done his best to rinse every note from his skin, it’s still stuck to his sleeves and his collar. 

He resolves himself to getting used to it. 

**Author's Note:**

> lmaoo this is so drippy but i was losing my mind over flowers as sex metaphors anr that poem fragment and i made tom and greg suffer for it. hope the next one isnt so SAPPY
> 
> big shoutout to tumblr user silkwurm for inspiring me to actually write about this concept! ! and to van1lla-v1lla1n for being the best and making me a moodboard for the other fic in this set ;_; so thoughtful and sweet!
> 
> title from the plumtree song! thank you for reading!!!!!!! ily!!!!!!


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